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“When hell freezes over,” I mutter and turn to grab my notepad, hating the way my heart pounds at the sound of his name, the memory of his voice, his mouth, his hold on me, the fact I can’t stop myself from feeling this way about him, and that Dena is right.
***
Watching out for Ross day after day and not seeing him, wondering if he’s okay, I almost get a heart attack when I finally spot him inside the grocer’s store. I’m climbing the steps, because Buddy is sitting there, and a familiar shape looms inside the store, a certain tall, broad-shouldered blond guy, his pale spiky hair catching the light of the overhead lamps.
Ross.
“Look, man,” he says, sounding at the end of his rope, “I just wanna pay for this stuff and go, all right? I don’t want no fight.”
“Don’t you, now?”
“Take my money, Conrad.”
“Your money ain’t no good here. Get out, or I’ll sic the sheriff on your ass.”
“Goddammit. Where’s Stacy?”
“She ain’t here, is she, to coddle your ass? Do you see her anywhere? Now get out.”
“You can’t do this. Come on. Yours is the only drugstore in town, goddammit.”
“Hurts, doesn’t it, Jones? Not to get your way like you used to. Did you know, you and your pals teased my youngest until he started having panic attacks—panic attacks, at his age—and had to stay away from school until you graduated. You thought your actions had no repercussions? Think again. So get outta here. As long as I sit behind the counter, you’re not getting shit.”
“Fuck.” Ross turns to go, a bleakness in his pretty blue eyes, a slump in his strong shoulders, and then he spots me. I know it from the way said eyes narrow and go flat with anger. “Watcha looking at?” he growls at me, the bite in his voice sending me a step back. “Fuck off.”
“Ross...”
It’s not fair what’s happening here. Not legal. Not ethical, no matter who Ross is, or was. He’s right, this is the only grocer’s in town. And not selling your products to someone without a reason is discrimination.
Look at me, defending Ross Jones’s rights.
But then he pushes past me, face locked down in a dark scowl, muttering, “Quit your goddamn staring. Got nothing better to do?”
Holy crap, he sure isn’t acting like a changed man now. The way he looks at me, like I’m dirt under his boots, sends me right back into time, three years back before I escaped from this town and his taunting.
I swore I wouldn’t let him do this to me ever again. I watch him go, Buddy loping after him, barking joyfully.
I swore, but can’t help feeling the anger is a thin layer over fear and frustration. I should be mad at him for biting my head off, but somehow I’m just sad.
***
The days roll by, and I’ve almost convinced myself that this is it, that Ross hasn’t changed one bit and I’m done with him for good.
But I prove myself a liar the moment I notice a blond head set on wide shoulders entering the diner.
I’m out from behind the bar, clutching a pot of freshly brewed coffee, before he has even taken a seat, before Dena has even looked up at the chime of the diner door.
It’s infuriating how I can’t help myself, can’t stop myself from running to him, especially after leaving him last time with the declaration that I can’t do this, only to worry myself sick that he hasn’t shown his face in a week.
Even more infuriating is that my first thought is whether my hair looks okay, and whether my cleavage is too low, and would he notice? That I want to look good. That I’m smiling too widely, my heart thumping hard.
God.
As I skid to a stop at his table, though, I freeze. That’s definitely not Ross. How did I imagine it was?
Probably because I wanted it to be him so badly.
“Jenner,” I breathe, awkward as my smile slips.
